


When You Least Expect It

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Elinora Cousland [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever said the Maker blessed Alistair with good timing. (Inspired by an amusing misclick during gameplay.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Least Expect It

So far, Elinora was not entirely inclined to like Redcliffe. Granted, its people were probably a good deal more agreeable when not having to tolerate nightly sieges from undead fiends, but from the Mayor's less than genteel remark about "women Grey Wardens," to the drunken blacksmith's insistence that he would not conduct repairs for the militia unless someone agreed to search for his daughter (Elinora could not help but boggle at Owen's logic – refusing to make repairs for the militia seemed to be the best way to doom his daughter beyond a shadow of doubt), to the barkeep's decision to charge the militia for their ale (if the undead descended on Redcliffe, not only would there be no men to whom he could sell ale, it was likely the tavern owner himself would have been killed in the raid), and finally to Loghain's elven spy, her patience was nearly at an end. Ser Perth's knights wanted holy protection, but the Revered Mother considered it untruthful to let the knights put their faith in amulets. Hours yet remained until nightfall, and Elinora had already found her patience tested beyond all endurance.

Or, perhaps she was simply still on edge after Alistair's news that, no, he wasn't just "some nobody," but rather the bastard son of King Maric, which meant Alistair was the rightful, albeit reluctant heir to the throne.

There was also the chance she was utterly fed up with dealing with shifty scavengers. Sten's sword was somewhere, damn it, and at this point, even if she had to raze all of Redcliffe herself, Elinora was determined to find the blasted thing. If she had anything to say about it, _something_ was going to go right today, by the Maker.

Then came the first bright bit of news of the day: Murdock charged her with the task of recruiting a dwarf named Dywn into the militia. Dwyn, the very dwarf in possession of Sten's sword – Elinora could finally feel the Maker smiling down upon her.

It didn't last. That was just the sort of day she was having.

Oh, the dwarf had agreed to join the militia – that was a start, at least. He also admitted to having Sten's sword in his possession, stowed safely in a strongbox. Additionally, he'd agreed to return the blade to its rightful owner, though Elinora suspected Sten's presence behind her was more persuasive to that end than anything she might have said to Dwyn.

And then the hairy little malcontent left without _giving her the key._

"Why, that rotten, opportunistic, rude, disgusting, _foul_—"

"Elinora?" Alistair asked.

"—hairy, unwashed, contemptuous—"

"Can I ask you something?"

"—self-serving jackanapes!" She swung around in time to see Alistair, watching her intently. "_What_?"

"So, all this time we've spent together. You know, the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the Blight looming over us." A pause. "Will you miss it, once it's over?"

Elinora stared at him for a moment – several long moments, in fact – trying to figure out what on earth had prompted him to venture down the path of such a non-sequitur. "I tear up just thinking about it," she replied, dryly. _You cannot seriously be asking me this now._

But Alistair went on. "There'll be no more running for our lives,no more Darkspawn... ugh, and no more camping in the middle of nowhere." He took a breath, steadying himself – though, for what, Elinora had no idea. "I know it... might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long, but I've come to care for you. A great deal."

Elinora blinked at him once, then twice, completely and utterly lost. There had to be better places to have this conversation! Better, at least, than being crowded in the closet in the home of a surly dwarf with Wynne and Sten – neither of whom were making even a token effort to act as if they weren't watching and listening intently.

"I think maybe it's because we've gone through so much together. I don't know. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe I'm fooling myself."

Elinora's face was flame-hot. "Alistair..."

"Am I? Fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever... feel the same way about me?"

Her mouth worked silently as she gaped at him. Apparently Alistair _did_ consider the current conditions to be ideal for such a conversation. She darted a nervous glance over his shoulder at Wynne, who was by now trying not to smile (an endeavor met with only limited success) and Sten, who looked as impassive as ever.

"I... ah... think I already do." _Now, Maker, please let us at least get out of this dwarf's closet before anything else—_

"So I fooled you, did I?" With those words, Alistair drew closer, taking Elinora into his arms.

_Oh, by Andraste's flaming sword, he isn't going to—_

"Good to know." As he spoke, one hand slid leisurely up her arm and shoulder, coming to rest at the back of her neck, and he was close – so close – and for as many times as Elinora had imagined this moment, this _very_ moment, she had never for a single solitary moment pictured anything remotely like this.

_He is. He_ is. _He's actually going to – oh, Maker..._

His lips were surprisingly warm and pliant, and any hesitations or misgivings Elinora might have had vanished under the gentle ministrations of his mouth against hers. She sighed into the kiss, closing her eyes and hooking one arm around his neck. The scratch of stubble against her chin and lips tickled, but the sensation was fleeting. Suddenly none of it mattered – Murdock's attitude, Owen's blind stubbornness, Dwyn's rotten attitude all melted away under the warm, pliant pressure of the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, Elinora licked her lips nervously, tamping down on the instinct to kiss him again – and again. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and every inch of her skin felt alive. Some distant part of her was surprised she was still standing at all.

"That," Alistair began, his voice rough, "...that wasn't too soon, was it?"

"I'm going to need more testing to be sure," she murmured, only half aware that they still had an audience, and only marginally aware that she ought to have been shocked and scandalized at their behavior.

"Well," he replied softly, grinning down at her, "I'm going to have to arrange that then, won't I?" He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Maker's breath, but you're beautiful. I am a lucky man." And then the spell was broken. "Now," he said, drawing himself up and clearing his throat, "let's get back to... what we were up to before, lest I forget why we're here."

"Why we're..." Elinora blinked and suddenly Dwyn's tiny closet came into focus. "Why we're here. Right." She cleared her throat and looked once more at the stubbornly locked strong box. Perhaps she could apply to Dwyn again after the battle and get the key. All was not lost – they had found Sten's sword, at least. They just couldn't get to it at that particular moment. Taking another deep breath and letting it out, Elinora looked up at the Qunari, who was still watching her with that same steely, impassive gaze.

"Sten, I'm afraid I can't quite... get to your sword right now."

One eyebrow lifted minutely. "Perhaps that is because you were looking for it at the back of the other Warden's throat."


End file.
